


another pint! what could possibly go wrong-

by sclerant (rufusrant)



Series: the hot mess [1]
Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Modern AU, a sort of Hangover AU, george can’t stop looking at ringo’s arse, paul is sassy and worried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-08-24 18:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16645682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufusrant/pseuds/sclerant
Summary: Ringo wakes up with George's name tattooed on his arse. Paul wears high heels. John is missing. They are all massively hungover aND DID I MENTION ARSE TATTOOS-





	1. george says fuck

**Author's Note:**

> just a mindless fun fic where the beatles are all alive, best of friends, and sharing a flat. 
> 
> and they're all one hot mess. 
> 
> enjoy!

When George wakes up he can't feel his backside. His head is smack against the floorboards and his legs are propped up on John's ugly old armchair, but he _can't feel his backside._ The light's too bright and is the wrong colour; it's so golden that it's the colour of the drinks they kept going at last night- golden gin, bubbling beer pints, spilled vodka under some streetlight near the pub or the flat, he can't remember. He realises that he's trouserless.

George lifts himself onto the chair. It's deadly quiet, and he can hear the bloody wall clock ticking away up too close, as if it were right next to his ears.

 _Tick._ It's barely eight. No one else is up.

 _Tick._ His head feels like a lead weight. Where's his phone? Where's his trousers gone? _Ugghh._

 _TICK_. A loud screech rings from his and Ringo's room. 

George shoves the door open. He's met with the sight of an entirely pantsless Ringo, back to the mirror, staring at his reflection, then back at George in utmost horror. "Uh."

"YOUR NAME'S ON MY ARSE!" shrieks Ringo.

"...what?"

"I SAID YOUR NAME'S ON MY ARSE!" Ringo turns his face away, and turns his arse towards George.

George steps closer. Ringo's arse is unusually blotch-red on the left cheek, some kind of bright blue nested right in the middle of it, stretching across the curve. And yes, undoubtedly, it's his name. G E O R G E is splashed in ultramarine right across Ringo's arse.

"...what the _fuck._ "

Ringo spins around, eyes wide. "What happened last night?"

"Lots of drinks, obviously," says George. His hand strays to his own backside. It feels oddly papery under his pants.

Ringo pulls his shirt down with one hand and claws through his hair with the other. "Christ, I can't- do you remember any of it?"


	2. ringo is arse-naked

All George can think of is grey pavement and brick walls that could belong to anyplace in town. He rubs at his face till it's warm. 

Ringo grabs his shoulder. "I found m' phone. Maybe there's something here-"

The photo app is open when Ringo unlocks it. There's possibly _hundreds_ of blurry snapshots, even some videos, all streetlights and shadows. Ringo clicks the latest photo: a grainy off-focus pic of a pavement, timestamp on top for three hours ago. 5 AM. 

"Fuck," mumbles George. "How long were we out?"

"Look at this," Ringo pushes play on a video and turns up the volume.

The camera zooms in on George, a cig sticking out from the side of his frown. He's trying to work his lighter. George mouths something along the lines of _motherfucker_ as the flame refuses to ignite. Ringo chuckles and the camera shakes. 

An offscreen cry of something incomprehensible sounds out, then another. George's pushes on the lighter wick get desperate and impatient. The camera suddenly cuts and zooms to Paul, slumped miserably against a lamp post. 

 _"Ey Macca,"_ Ringo slurs. _"W-wasswrong?"_

Paul blinks. He says something, but it doesn't register. His eyes close again, and he slides downwards. The video ends.

 _"Shit,"_ screams Ringo. He throws his phone. George flies into a panic. They'd completely forgotten about their flatmates. 

George and Ringo scramble out the room. George nearly forgets the numbness in his own arse for a hot second and that his name is permanently written on Ringo's. It doesn't help that said arse is on full display as Ringo scours around the living room and kitchen.  _No, don't look, don't look, don't look-_

"John? Paul?" George calls down the hall. He braces himself opening the door to their room, but it is immaculate (of course. Paul would bust an artery otherwise) and more importantly, empty. The bed didn't even seem to have been slept in the previous night.

The door of the en suite bathroom is ajar. If they were lucky, both John and Paul would be in there, safe, curled up in each other, and they'd probably laugh it all off and get Ringo some tea for the tattoo shock. George gives it a gentle push-

 _"..._ shit. _Ringo!"_

_~_

"If you can hear me, Paul, wake the _fuck_ up."

"Tsk, Geo. That's no way to talk to your friend!" Ringo tuts. He reaches into the mass of bubbles in search of the plug. Paul's passed out in sudsy water and special bath foam, still in his shirt from last night. He has soap in his hair, shinier than usual.

Ringo unhooks the plug with a pop. George flicks water at Paul's face, but he doesn't stir. Ringo gives Paul a light shake of the shoulders, but his head only lolls to the side. 

"Wake. Up. C'mon." George’s splashes get bigger. He has a brief mad flash of jumping up onto the tub rim and shoving Paul's head under the water. Just as he stands, Ringo grabs Paul's nose with two knuckles and _pulls_. 

With a gasp and splutter Paul kicks out a tidal wave. George yelps and Ringo stumbles back onto his still-bare-except-for-George's-name arse. Paul's eyes fly open and he shoots upright, eyelashes dripping. 

"Fuckin' hell," Paul blinks rapidly.

"Good to have ya back, Macca." says Ringo. 

"What?" Paul wipes at his eyes. "Wh-Ritch, where the hell your pants?!"

George turns away, feeling a heat come over his face. 

"I dunno," says Ringo. "I have an arse tattoo now, though."

"What the fuck? Are ya serious?" Paul tries to shift closer in the tub, and there's a loud clack of something. He winces, immediately turning to rub at his leg-

The last of the water around him clears. George's mouth falls open. On Paul's feet are the brightest, reddest, tallest, stilettos he'd ever _fuckin'_ seen in his _entire_ life. "Uh."

"Oh my god. What are those?" Paul sticks a leg up, turning his foot this way and that. "Red is  _not_ my colour!"

Ringo stares helplessly at the arch of Paul's foot. "Don't those... hurt?"

"Oh, absolutely.“

Ringo snorts kindly. George rolls his eyes, but chuckles nonetheless. 

"Speaking of which, where's John?" 


	3. WHERE IS JOHN

George and Ringo exchange a look. It was quite obvious that John wasn't in the flat. 

"Uh, ya see," says Ringo, his tone a wannabe-comfort in hopes of pacifying (even better; preventing) an oncoming McCartney outburst, "I was thinking we should phone him up and-"

"Oh _shit_ ," says Paul. "He's- he isn't in the house?"

Ringo turns back to George with a pleading look. George exhales deeply. 

"No." 

"Oh. Yeah, let's jus' phone him." Paul says rather calmly, to their large surprise. He makes to get up, but immediately flops back down, elbow over eyes. "Ugh; I'm never drinkin' again."

Ringo leaves to retrieve his phone. George perches awkwardly on the tub rim, and tries not to let his mind wander. He closes his eyes, but all he can see is Ringo's arse. It's kind of amusing now- of all people, of all names, his is the one that gets chosen. Not in the way he expected at all, but it is definitely something. He muffles a chuckle behind his hand.

"Christ," Paul mumbles. "I hope he hasn't done anything stupid."

George turns. He eyes the stilettos on Paul's feet again. There's a price tag hanging off a strap of the left shoe. 

"I hope _you_ haven't done anythin' stupid," he says, leaning in to inspect the tag. "How much didja pay for these?"

Paul groans unintelligibly. Ringo kicks the door open and is clad in jeans, thank lord. 

"I found two other phones!" Ringo announces, plonking himself next to George. "This yours?"

George drops the tag in relief when he sees his purple case, except for the spidery crack down the middle of the screen. But he's been lucky. The other phone's naked, and the cracks on that are practically a web. Paul pouts when Ringo hands it to him.

"Sorry 'bout that," says Ringo. "Geo?"

George nods. He searches for John in his contacts as Paul waits for his phone to finish powering up.

"Okay, it's ringing-"

A shrill guitar riff sounds out. All three of them freeze as the phone in Paul's hands lights up with  _Incoming Call: George_ _._

Oh, shit.

Paul is silent. He blinks rapidly, eyes frozen to the screen. George's hand feels weak all of a sudden. "... John's phone."

Paul doesn't move until John's ringtone stops, and _Missed Call_ pops up next to George's name. He leans over the rim and heaves into the toilet, eyes streaming. Ringo rubs circles into Paul's back and slips the phone into his own hand. 

"Johnny," Paul cough-whispers. "You bleeding  _git-_ "

George grabs a glass off the counter and fills it from the tap.

"Easy there, now." says Ringo, bending on one knee. "Give it here, Geo-"

Paul takes a long sip and an equally long draw of breath, eyes closed. 

Ringo hands him a wad of loo roll to clean up. "Alright, m'lad?"

Paul nods, and wipes at his mouth. "We have to find John," he declares. "Should we call the police?"

"No." George says quickly. "There's too much explainin' to do. An' I can't remember last night at all."

"Damnnit, you're right. 'm not sure I even _paid_ for these," says Paul, gesturing at his stilettos.

"Okay, okay," says Ringo, unlocking his phone. "I took an arseload of pics and videos last night-" George bites his lip on 'arseload' -"there's bound to be location stamps and stuff. Step one, we go through them, look for clues, and we'll find John. Alright?"

"Yeah!" Paul swings his legs out of the tub, and remnants of soap drip onto the floor. 

"Step zero point five; we clean up," says Ringo. "And, uh, get dressed."

George snickers. Then remembers he's still trouserless. 


	4. paul screams about money and at ringo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> f-bombs galore. enjoy <3

After George has put on sweatpants, he and Ringo sit on either side of Paul with a hairdryer in hand. Ringo scrolls through his photo gallery as they dry Paul, sullen-faced and worried. John's cracked phone is in George's hand now, lighting up whenever George turns it towards himself. His lock screen is a secret photo of Paul, tongue out and cross-eyed.

"Nice picture of you," George chuckles.

Paul is surprised for a moment, but he smiles. "I've never seen that one."

There's a tinge of pleasant warmth in this revelation, and George doesn't even notice the sudden itch in his backside. He scratches gently at first, but it only seems to spread.

"I think I've got something." Ringo says, clicking off his hairdryer. "It's a place we were _definitely_ at last night."

Paul sits up. "Was John with us?"

"I have no idea. Most of ‘em are of the streets."

"Where's this place?"

Ringo keeps his gaze fixed on his phone. His tongue swipes once over his lip.

"The Harlequin Tattoo Parlour."

George swallows down his breath so fast he barely feels it either.

"It's uh, about a twenty minutes walk. Fifteen if we hail a cab-"

"Check for a bus," adds Paul. "If I paid for these shoes last night there's no way I'm affordin' a cab."

"Where did you even buy those?" asks George, desperate to change the subject. The price tag hanging at Paul’s foot is a sad, water-damaged blur. Goddamnit.

"We'll talk about that later," says Ringo, standing up. "Now we just hafta focus on findin' John, and-" his gaze meets George's. George's hand freezes mid-scratch.

"We focus on finding John," says Paul. He reaches down and unbuckles the stilettos.

"What- what're you doing?"

"These hurt." Paul rolls his eyes. "I'm _not_ walking 'round the streets in these."

George and Ringo look helplessly at Paul's foot, unsure of where else to lay their eyes on. Ringo turns away first, swiftly typing into his phone.

~

At five to nine they're standing in front of the Harlequin Tattoo Parlour and its _We're Closed!_ sign. They didn't open till eleven. George is awfully close to ripping away the skin of his arse under his sweatpants and squinting in the light. Paul's comandeered John's phone and a pair of Ringo's sunglasses, expression unreadable.

"...fuck." Paul says finally.

"Okay," says Ringo cautiously. “Let’s try something else, yeah? Maybe the, uh, shop where ya bought them shoes-"

" _Are you_ fuckin' _nuts?"_ screams Paul. "Suppose I _didn't_ buy them shoes! They're gonna fuck me up-"

"Paul, I don't think that-"

 _"I'm too young for my_ fuckin' _criminal record!"_

 _"That's not the_ fuckin' _point, you shit-prick!"_

 _"Why the_ fuck _are you_ fuckin' _screamin' at me?!"_

"You _started_ fuckin' _screamin' first!"_

"SHUT THE _FUCK_ UP," George screams even louder, pushing himself between them. "And calm the _FUCK_ down, _please_. People are starin'."

Ringo exhales deeply, lowering his head. Paul whips off the sunglasses and pinches at his temple.

" _'We focus on findin' John'_ , ring a bell?"

"We're sorry, Geo," says Paul, voice low. "And Ringo, I'm so sorry; I didn't mean-"

" 's fine," says Ringo. "And I don't think you nicked them shoes. You probably wouldn't even be here- I mean, with all the security and cameras nowadays."

Unexpectedly, Paul nearly bursts into tears again, muttering something about blowing out his wedding funds. George rolls his eyes, and then he blinks. There's a man with arms wrapped in layers of inked pictures, striding up to the parlour door. He unlatches a key from his belt. George slaps Ringo and Paul on the shoulders.

"Oi! Sir! Excuse me-"

"Sorry lads, we're not open till eleven."

"We're not here for tattoos," says George. "We need to speak to someone. The, uh, tattooist that was here- Ringo, when were we here?"

"Oh! Um, 'round midnight."

The man finally turns to look at them. "Midnight?"

"Yes! We need to speak with them, it's urgent-"

The man chuckles. "Yours truly, then! I remember you," He points a thin finger at Ringo. "You weren't scared of the needle one bit. A brave one, you are."

Ringo's cheeks flush.

"An' I remember _you-_ " He pats George on the shoulder -"an' you, the one with them red heels!" He laughs.

"And do you remember a fourth- were there four of us who came in?" asks Paul.

Their tattooist scratches his neck. " 'm sorry, I don't think so."

"Really? He's about my height; and- and he probably had glasses on-"

"Okay, well- ya see, there's supposed to be four of us," says Ringo, hand on Paul's shoulder. "We got sloshed last night, and our friend- number four's- gone missing. We were wondering if he was here with us when you gave me the, um, tat."

"Ah," says the tattooist, "Sorry 'bout the missin' friend, but I'm very certain that only you three came in last night- oh yeah! We even took pictures."

A silence.

"... I'm sorry, _what?"_ asks Ringo.

" 's a thing I do for all my customers," he chuckles. "I take polaroids of them an' their tats - that is, if the tat isn't in anyplace naughty."

Ringo blushes scarlet. 

"Anywho, I remember taking a group pic of you lot- don't worry, fully clothed an' pearly whites! I can give it to you if you like- as a keepsake?"

~

They are sitting in a back room with mugs of tea in their hands, one of George's dipping discreetly to scratch at his backside. He makes a mental note to slip into a chemist's for a cream when all of this was over.

"What's your friend's name?" Their tattooist asks, sifting through a box of polaroids.

"John." says Paul. 

"Oh, cool! My son's named John, too. That's him over there," he points at the framed photo of a toddler on the table.

"He looks lovely," remarks Ringo.

"Thanks," Their tattooist turns and places some polaroids on the table. "Here you are-"

George braces himself to see Ringo's arse. It doesn't appear, but the pics aren't any better- they're all clearly sloshed out of their skulls, all limbs and tongues and teeth. Ringo's drooling in one, and in another Paul's on a table with a leg up, stiletto hanging off his toes. And in nearly all of them he himself is smoking the _wrong_ end of the cig. 

George snorts. Ringo chuckles. They’re wheezing like kids when they find Paul's impersonation of Jessica Rabbit.

"Hey, wait, look at this-" 

Ringo pushes one of the polaroids to the center of the table. George's perched on the floor in it, making cross-eyes behind Paul's feet. His left foot is crossed over his right ankle, tag in full view. 

"Oh, Christ." whispers Paul.

"Can you see what it says?" George clambers closer to Ringo.

"Uh... there's a logo," Ringo squints. "It looks like... two G's? Intertwined."

"Gucci," says Paul, standing up in triumph. He immediately, however, sits back down and crumples in on himself.

"What-what'sa matter?" Their tattooist asks, alarmed. "What's he cryin' about? The Gucci chain round here isn't that far away."

"No, no," says Ringo, taking a sip of tea. "I think it's about his bank account."


	5. john and paul, last night

_Friday, 17.51_

**Me:** macca

macca

mACCA

 

 **P <3:** wHAT

 

 **Me:**  can u get me a towel

im in the bath and there arent any 

 

 **P <3:** ...what

is that all

fine 

 

 **Me:** aw dont be like that

youre welcome to join me ;)

 

 **P <3:** hmmm very tempting 

pass though. geo & rings are makin sandwiches

they just made me a real good one

 

 **Me:** gasp

how dare u choose sandwiches over me!!

and sandwiches?? we goin out for dinner arent we

 

 **P <3:** they made u one too

 

 **Me:** wait really

awww sweet

can u bring it in with the towel

 

_Friday, 18.39_

**P <3:** johnny

psst johnny

 

 **Me:** yes dear

youre right across me 

 

 **P <3:** look

ringo

 

 **Me:** huh

 

 **P <3:** he's totally eyeing geo up

i ship it

 

 **Me:** ...where?

 

 **P <3:** theyre right next to us dammit look closer!!

 

 **Me:** oh

_OH_

omg he's eyeing him up back im-

quick phone down waitress’ here

 

 **P <3:** shitshitshi

 

_Friday, 22.07_

**Me:** darling

darling

darling ddont awander off

 

 **P <3:** olok whose talking

whmere tf r u

oi

john

lol rwtf vis george doin

oh hes lookngi for ringo

 

 **Me:** where r u

ringozs with me

r vu at home

 

 **P <3:** uh

im stangnid on somewhcewre

ugh vim gonna bte sick

 

 **Me:** sdfgchk gno pls

baby

shit did u sick

bby

paul wya

 

 **P <3:** i threwup alll over me shoes!!!

fuckinghell eew

 

_Friday, 22.59_

**Me:**  ey njynnyyyyy

george and ni got mze apair dof ishoes ist all gopod

hello?

johnny!!

reply me wyou gitj

john phlease vr u there

i didn't mean to cawll yovu a giht i zlove you

hello?? ?


	6. ringo freaks out (silently)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's pretend that gucci shops are open till midnight in this universe.

George downs the rest of Paul's tea and they're out, their tattooist wishing them luck. Ringo's typing away on Google Maps, while Paul's looking at John's phone.

Then he stops, frozen. "My phone."

"...what?" says George.

"My  _own_  phone isn't here," says Paul, looking as if he might have a stroke. "Fuckin' hell, my phone's gone!"

 George deadpans. "You only realise this now?"

"I was  _focusing_  on finding John! Oh fuck me, this can't possibly get any worse-"

"Oi! Don't say that! That phrase is practically  _beggin'_  for worse things; haven't ya ever seen those movies?"

"What movies? This isn't a bleeding movie!" Paul's voice is shaky. "John could lying hurt in a ditch somewhere, Ringo has a fuckin'  _arse_  tattoo, and I've lost my phone and blown a grand on shoes. I can't- even-"

Paul doesn't finish. He hides his face in his hands, pressing John's phone against his eye awkwardly.

Then it hits.

"Hey," says George. "Did you two text each other last night?"

Ringo looks up. So does Paul. "Yeah?"

"If you can unlock John's phone and, uh, look through the texts, we might find something."

Paul types something, and in a  _click_  John's homescreen appears.

"Well that was fast!" says Ringo. "Ya do this often?"

"Nah. John's passcode is always my birthday."

George and Ringo exchange a look. Ringo rolls his eyes.  _They are so married._

Paul accesses the messaging app. "Alright. So I told him that I threw up on my shoes."

"That explains a lot," says Ringo. "When?"

"10 PM."

"Jeez, that's early."

"And at one minute to eleven, it's jus' me."

"What?"

"I got hold of his phone and texted him, look-"

There's a string of drunk texts. Paul's garbling and calling out to John.

"What're the odds that John's got hold of  _your_  phone?" asks George, when it pops into him.

"Oh Christ, probably half in a hundred," sighs Paul.

Ringo pats his shoulder. "At least we know where to look next. I've got the address ready to go."

"Whaddaya mean?" says George. "Oh, yeah, the Gucci?"

Paul's groan is one of death.

~

The Gucci branch is in one of those Queen’s-standard department stores (of course) and George desperately keeps his hands away from his still-itching backside. Ringo's in the lead, phone in his back pocket, and George keeps his gaze to the polished floor.

The girl behind the counter is very pretty, polite smile and all the works. "Can I help you?"

"Yes," says Paul. "I think I bought a pair of stilettos here last night?"

She blinks. "I'm sorry?"

"I think I bought a pair of red stilettos here last night- Ringo, show her the picture-"

Ringo gives her the polaroid of Paul's feet, the tag in view.

"Uh, ya see, I drank last night and got sick," tries Paul. "I think I came in here and bought these as a... replacement?"

She stifles a small giggle. "These definitely look like our stock. What seems to be the problem?"

"Did I actually  _buy_  them, or did I nick them off the display?"

George snorts. Ringo rolls his eyes again. She looks at them all closely.

"Hmm. I don't think you've stolen anything, Sir. I would've heard about it from my colleagues."

Paul's expression is hard to read. There's relief from the assurance of no criminal act done, but his credit card was definitely wrung-dry now.

"Thanks," he manages, taking the polaroid back. "One more thing?"

"Yes?"

"What's your return policy?"

George and Ringo turn around so they can snicker in peace.

"Reckon we should ask her 'bout John, though?" whsipers George.

Ringo's chuckling fades, and he shrugs. "I dunno. From the looks of those texts I'm guessin' he wasn't here."

"You're sure?"

Ringo nods, and shoves his hands into his pockets. He's suddenly very interested in the handbags on display; neither he nor George are looking at each other. 

"I think- Ringo, Ithinkweneedtotalk."

"Oh?" 

"The, uh, _thing_ on your arse-" George immediately regrets his word choice. By the sound of it Ringo might as well have a pig's tail or a patch of nasty disease. 

"Do ya wanna- well, you know. Get it... out?"

Ringo's eyes flicker towards George, then to the floor. "Um."

"I'll pay for it.”

"No, that's not it. Don't wanna offend ya or anything."

George blinks. "What d'ya mean?"

"It's _your_ name." 

George blinks again. "I wouldn't be offended!"

"Ya sure? Because I really like you and all, and- am I makin' any sense? Christ, what's up with Macca, he's takin' ages-"

Ringo turns back to Paul and the shop assistant. George turns around too.

"It _does_ make sense. I really don't mind if ya wanna get it removed. Or not." George whispers. "I really like you too. I jus' don't want it to make things, uh, weird."

Ringo doesn't look at him, but he nods. George can't help but feel a sting of something unfinished, and sets his hands behind his back. He gets a quick scratch or two down to his own irritating arse. _Of all places._

Paul waves the assistant goodbye, and the three share an unspoken agreement of silence that only breaks when they're out of the department store. Paul releases a groan so big its almost a shout, Ringo slumps on a lamp post, and George goes back to freely scratching his backside.

"I've failed John," is the first thing Paul says. He leans himself against Ringo's lamp post, just like in that video on Ringo's phone. He's looking through it now, eyes nearly shut, looking for clues that are blurs or aren't there.

 _Maybe we_ should _try the police,_ George pitches in his head. _They deal with missing people everyday._

But John's not just another missing person, and both Ringo and Paul looked as if they were about to cry. They were the last people to see John, and were doing a shit job of remembering if he'd worn his glasses last night. 

"You two." Ringo, breathless, removes himself from the lamp post. He grabs Paul's shoulder and rushes over to George. Ringo's phone is in the center of them, a line of photos and one video under  _Recently Deleted_ on the screen.

Paul draws in a sharp breath as he settles on George's foot. But George barely registers this because on that deleted video, under a glint of streetlight, is John.

He's wearing his glasses. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i appreciate feedback! leave a comment!


	7. john-paul-george-ringo, last night

Everything is light, literally too, because the streetlights are stars. George’s swaying from one foot to another. His hand runs along the brick of a wall and Paul’s sulking at the front, muttering mishmash nonsense.

“George,” says Paul. “George, don’t- don’t lag behind.”

“ ‘s only way I can avoid smellin’ yer _sick."_

“Don’t sass me, mister. I’m tellin’ John.”

“Yeah? What- whas’ he gunna do? Make me sit in the corner? Huh? Well?-“

“ShhHHHh,” Paul hisses, and pulls out his phone. “Yer doing my fuckin’ head in.”

“Who’re you texting?”

Paul simply hisses again, but doesn’t stop George leaning over. Paul nearly jumps out of his skin when George snorts.

“What the fuck.”

“ _That’s_ John’s name in your phone?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“You two are _soooooooo_ married.”

“Shut it Geo, he hasn’t asked yet-“ Paul’s voice is low, but his text to John is practically a screech. George wrinkles his nose as Paul slams into the keyboard. The stench from the vomit-shoes is nauseating.

“You gonna change outta those?”

”Duh. Once I find a shoe store or something-“

“You’re gonna walk into a fuckin’ shoe store in _those_?” George laughs.

“Say one more thing and I'll sick up on _you.”_

George raises his hands in defeat.

A shout in the distance, and John jogs up to them both. Paul swiftly kicks off his shoes and _wraps_ himself around John, legs around waist, and then their lips meet- not crash- even when they’re drunk they’re absolutely soft on each other. George’s eyes roll so far back that he sees his brain. He clears his throat.

“Where’s Ringo?”

John throws a glance to somewhere behind himself. “Sittin’ on a smoke. Having a grass.”

Paul giggles.

“And he's _very_ lonely,” John smirks. “He’s gone completely nuts. Spoutin’ some gospel shit about Lady Love somethin'-or-other.”

George grunts and moves past them, hand still along the wall. Paul and John are going off a mile a minute, arms stuck together.

“So, ‘bout that text over dinner-“

Another giggle. “Shit John, not _now-“_

“It’s happenin’ right before our very eyes, ain’t it?”

Paul splutters, but shushes him quick. George is determined not to look. He and Ringo had learned their lesson one too many times.

Ringo, speak of the devil, sits smoking with his back against the end of the wall, bottom on wet grass.

“Hey,” says George, relieved.

“Hey.”

“Can I, uh, bum a smoke?”

Ringo holds out his packet of cigs. George bends down to take one, and nearly jumps when Ringo leans forward.

“Wha-?”

Ringo gestures to his own burning cig. “Dontcha need a light?”

George blinks. Ringo’s eyes are bolder under the flickering street light. It doesn't make him cuter, but something else entirely. George holds the cig between his fingers, closes his own eyes, and moves in.

A squeal drives them open. Lennon-McCartney have invaded.

“What?” says Ringo.

"Nothing, nothing," laughs John. He proceeds to hide his face in the side of Paul's neck. "Nothing. At. All."

"Be handsy somewhere else. We're tryna smoke."

"That's all?" says Paul, sounding disappointed.

George hasn't taken his eyes off Ringo. He's squatting on the grass across him, eyes tracing outlines. Ringo's outline is the best of all.

"Now Macca, don't rush 'em," murmurs John. "Hey, where're your shoes?"

George turns. Paul's barefoot.

"You just saw me throw them away."

"Eh? Why?"

"Didn't ya get my text? I sicked up on them."

"No. I dropped my phone."

"Aw, shit."

"Exactly! All my games, my memes, my nudes-"

_"John!"_

"Jesus Christ," chuckles Ringo.

John turns back to Paul. "Anyroad. You can't be walking 'round like that. What if you get cut?"

"No, I'm gunna find a shoe store."

 "Okay," John nods, but turns on George next. "Go with him."

"Wha? Why?"

"Ringo's the only one here with ciggies and I'm dyin' for a smoke. And a _sit-down_ smoke at that, alright?"

"So?" 

"So. I need ta ring Mimi up too. I can't speak to Mimi without a smoke, y'know that! If she starts on asking how much I've been eatin' again, 'm gonna chop off my own pr-"

"OKAY." George stomps out his cig. 

"Brilliant. So Ringo, can I-"

" 'kay." The cig packet is thrust at him.

"And can I borrow your phone?"

"Don't push it."

"Aw, c'mon."

"Use mine," Paul offers, and drops it against John's back. "C'mon, Geo."

~

After eons, Paul skips out the shoe store. He's now a foot taller than George, but George's head is pounding too loudly for him to notice. 

"Georgy! Whaddaya think?"

"Uhhh."

"Aww, thanks!" 

The next half-hour they are lost in the department store, going down up escalators and knocking into directories. George bumps into at an advertisement board for engagement rings and sees Ringo's hand. The diamonds disappear and are replaced with onyx and dark stones, and George can't help but grin.

~

Ringo's crawling on the grass when they return.

Paul tilts his head. "What on earth?"

"Can't remember where I put me phone."

"What the fuck? Why don't you just call it?"

Ringo stares at him incredulously. George bursts into a fit of laughter. Paul simply sniffs.

"Where's John?"

"Hey I found it!" Ringo reaches for his phone, dropped against the further stretch of wall. 

"I _said_ , where's John?" Paul puts his hands on his hips. "He has my fuckin' phone."

"Oh yeah. He, um, called Mimi, shouted fuck, and-" a snort. "-climbed the wall. I think." 

George turns. There's no one but the three of them. "Whaddaya mean, you think?"

"I dunno. I went to take a shit."

"Bruh."

Ringo shrugs. He turns back to his phone.

"Shit, this thing's been recordin' for 20 minutes! My space!" 

 _"Where the_ fuck _is my phone?"_ cries Paul, completely oblivious. "I swear to God, if he's dropped my phone too-"

Paul's foot comes down and hits something with a thud. It's a phone, screen of the messaging app bright on the grass. 

"Nevermind." Paul smiles. He picks it up and begins typing away.

 


	8. george screams his arse off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> back in the present:

The camera's zoomed into John's face. _"What?"_

Ringo's chuckling.  _"Do something."_

 _"Oh, it's rolling?"_ He pulls a series of faces. The camera shakes and zooms out as Ringo snorts from behind it.

John switches off the phone in his hand and steps closer. The screen suddenly flips itself and Ringo's nose comes into view.

_"Hey, wha- aw shit. John?"_

Ringo, in real-time, is chewing on a fingernail. 

_"I'm goin' to the loo. Don't run off."_

John cackles madly offscreen. There's a blur of streetlight and darkness before the phone settles to a point on the ground. 

 _"John- John, I'm putting this 'ere, okay?"_ Ringo slurs. _"Its my eyes and ears-"_

_"Whatever ya say old man!"_

_"Oi! Only 3 months!"_  Ringo retaliates. _"Don't- don't do anythin' stupid, okay?"_

John cackles madly again, his face against that dark, high wall. 

A quick patter of feet, and then silence. Ringo taps the screen and moves the video scrubber ahead.

"Hey, what're you doing?" says Paul. "Don't- _oh."_

George's eyes widen as the video continues to play. John's nowhere in sight. On the street, half-obscured by the wall, is an unmistakable ambulance. 

Ringo's hand claps over his mouth. Two paramedics in white rush around the ambulance with a stretcher. Another pair kneel on the pavement, backs to the screen. A pair of feet stick out from between the two, spread. The video sound's muffled by breeze, but it falls over the three of them, and crushes like the house from Oz. 

"Oh my god, he's been hit by a car." Paul whispers. 

"No, wait, scroll back-" George scrubs the video, and his hand freezes. The ambulance's gone.  John's standing _on_ the wall, arms out, completely shitfaced. 

George's mouth drops open. John's turning this way and that, mad ballerina on the brain, _skipping_ up and down the length of it. Paul lets out a screech when John tips over mid-pirouette and disappears over the side of the wall. Ringo's ice-eyes are frozen in their sockets. 

"Fuck," he mutters. "Oh, fuck, this is so bad-"

Paul presses his hands hard into his mouth, as if to stop another wave of sick. Ringo scrubs the video forwards and he himself appears, crawling on the grass. George and Paul follow, Paul strutting in the stilettos. He switches his phone off in a snap.

 _"What the_ fuck _are we gonna do?"_  

 

George whips out his phone. "We call the police-"

He jumps a foot out of his skin. His phone is ringing. His face screws up in confusion when he makes to answer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Incoming Call: Paul_

"What the fuck?" 

Ringo steps closer to them. So does Paul, blinking rapidly. George answers the call.

"Hello?"

_"George! Oh thank god. It's me-"_

"John!"

"It's him?!" Paul swipes at his eyes. "Put him on speaker-"

"Alright, alright! John- you're on speaker now-"

" _Christ,_ John, are you okay? Where are you?" 

 _"Paul? Well, bless my soul. The whole gang's here."_ A chuckle.

"Yeah," says Ringo, and he grabs Paul's wrist. "You okay?"

_"Mostly. I've got a... bit of a bang-up on my head, but otherwise I'm in the pink."_

A collective sigh of relief.

John clears his throat. _"Alright, listen up: I've got a bleedin' headache and I'm on my last 5% here- well,_ Paulie's _last 5%."_ Another chuckle. _"I'm in a hospital."_

"We know," says George. "We all saw the video." 

_"Huh? What video?"_

"We'll explain later!" Paul says quickly. "Which hospital are you at?"

_"Right. I'll go ask a nurse. Don't hang up."_

"You don't _know?"_ says Ringo, incredulous.

 _"I just woke up,"_ says John. _"Well, from the beer-coma, that is. Hopefully."_

 

~

The call cuts dead just as John finishes reading off the address. Paul shoves both George and Ringo into the first cab they see, and _politely_ yells at the cabbie to step on it. George briefly quotes _"there's no way I'm affordin' a cab"_ , but Paul silences him- _"if_ your _husband may have cracked his entire_ fuckin' _head, you'd understand"_ \- and George goes back to quietly scratching his arse. Thank god it was a hospital. A hospital meant doctors and a pharmacy with the answer to the itch. 

Paul throws his credit card at the cabbie when they pull up at the hospital entrance. Ringo gives the horrified-looking receptionist John's name, and a ward number is revealed. "One visitor at all times, please!" she calls, regardless.

They slow down by the time the lift starts, but time kicks into fast-forward the second they see John. He's propped against a pillow, Paul's phone in hand. A bandage is wrapped around his head and his glasses perch on the bedside table.

He drops the phone and opens his arms as Paul _leaps_ onto him, hands in hair, desperate kiss to the forehead. George and Ringo stop, and take a step back; an exhale, each. 

"Hey lads," says John. "And Princess."

"You scared the living _shit_ outta us," Paul’s eyes are wet. "You wanker."

"I love you too."

Paul murmurs something they can't hear. He dips his head and kisses John's lips. Ringo turns away sheepishly, scratching his collar.

"Guess we'd better book it," he says. "Better not rile up them nurses."

"Mm. Yeah."

"D'ya wanna get a cuppa?"

"Absolutely." A quick scratch there. "I gotta use the loo first."

" 'kay. I'll wait up."

Thankfully, the mens room is just down the corridor. Ringo drinks from the water fountain outside as George clicks the door shut. The itching had finally tamed, and he was alone at last. He strips off his sweats and underwear- and his fingernails snag on bandage.

His heart skips a beat. There's a _bandage patch_ on his right arse cheek, stretching over the curve, held in place by two thin strips of cloth tape. George's hand hovers over it now, and tries to recall what on _earth_  could've warranted a need to wrap up his bum. The scratched skin around it is bright red and slightly cracked. Praying that it wasn't a rash, George takes the tape between two fingers and peels-

Then his screech fills the entire floor.


	9. george buys ringo tea

George feels dry all over, as if his heart and brain (and bladder that needed to be emptied just mere seconds ago) have suddenly frozen. He could pass for a sculpture. The whole thing is almost funny.

Ringo pounds on the door. "Geo? What's happened?"

George's tongue swipes over his lip. The tape and bandage are between his fingers, unsure of which way to go. Half of him is aching to see, the other wills him to paste it back on, smile big at Ringo, and pretend that everything’s still the same. Oh, and keep his back turned to Ringo at all times- he won't mind, he gets an eyeful of all three of their behinds whenever they play, and that's pretty plenty-

He rips the bandage off, and lets the image- literally- sink in. Etched across his right arse cheek is R I N G O, in deep, rich mauve. George closes his eyes and regains his heartbeat.

Ringo's knocks turn anxious. _"Geo!_ You okay in there?"

George bins the bandage after a mo. "Um."

"D'ya need me to come in?" asks Ringo, and immediately splutters. "Wait, no, that's not what-"

"No," George flips the tap on and wets his face. "But Ineedtotellyousomething."

A pause. "Okay."

"You have to promise not to get miffed or anything."

"O-kay?"

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

A deep breath. "Your name's on _my_ arse."

There's a prompt slam against the door, and George jumps back.

"Sorrysorrysorry! I slipped, but- so _that's_ why you've been scritch-scratchin'!"

"You _noticed?"_

"Of course."

"I- Shit, Ritchie. I'm real fuckin' embarrassed right now."

"Does it... hurt?"

"A little."

"Oh." There's a pause, but it's strangely comfortable. "Don't worry. It'll pass."

Then he chuckles. Sort of.

George's face is no longer burning. He may even be laughing a little, too.

~

George and Ringo take turns seeing John, and Ringo loses the rock- paper- scissors on who has to break the news. A nurse rushes in at one point, believing John's shrieks to be part of a seizure.

 _"This is- the best thing-_ _I've ever heard."_ John wheezes. "What colour is it?"

"Mine or his?"

_"Both."_

"Mine's blue. His is-"

"Waitwaitwait- _purple."_

"Yeah."

John nearly falls off his bed.

~

Ringo sits in a corner of the hospital cafeteria, head on the table. Paul's left to fill out John's discharge papers. He looks up warily when George places two cups on the table.

“Black, no milk, two sugars.”

Ringo’s eyes widen. “You remembered my favourite.”

“Of course. You sit across me every breakfast.”

“Right.” Ringo sits up. “Thank you.”

George nods. He takes a seat and takes slow, grateful sips of his own tea. It’s a fucking amazing cup of tea, considering the morning they’ve just had.

“So- Geo.” Ringo starts, eyes shifting. A hard blink sets him looking straight. “About the tattoos.”

George almost burns his tongue.

“I’m totally fine if you want to get it- _yours-_ you know, removed. I’m a hundred percent okay with whatever you choose,” says Ringo. “So I ask that you in turn... not mind my _own_ decision.”

Ringo’s arms fold on the table. “I’m not removing mine.”

“Okay.”

A look of surprise briefly passes over Ringo’s face. He takes the quickest sip of tea.

“I need to tell you why.”

George blinks. “Sure.”

“Remember how you were making those sandwiches yesterday? And then I- I asked for one, and then I started makin’ them with you?”

“Mm, yeah.”

“Well. I didn’t actually want a sandwich.” Ringo’s eyes are bright. “I jus’ wanted to hang out with you.”

His hands are clasped, rings digging into palms. George’s mind’s going light years, zooming around the cafeteria.

“D’ya get what I’m saying?”

A pause. George moves his head, neither a nod nor a shake.

“I think so.”

Ringo looks away, pink-faced. His eyes are still bright.

“But I’m sure of what _I’ve_ chosen,” says George. He then dumps the rest of the tea down his throat.

Ringo jolts. “Huh?”

“ ’m not removing-” George splutters. He turns away to fan his tongue. Ringo leans over the table quick and thumps him on the back.

“Oh, Geo, what was up with that?”

“I said I’m not removin’ my tat.”

“I meant the tea,” Ringo chuckles. “Wasn’t that scalding?”

“I'm fuckin’ nervous. You make me fuckin’ nervous.”

“I do?”

“Yes.” George lets out one final cough. “You’re too beautiful.”

Ringo draws back, but only a bit. His eyes are even brighter.

"You think I'm beautiful?"

Heat, not from the tea, rushes into George's face. He nods, firm and final. No more thinking.

Ringo grins, and picks up his tea. “Look who's talking.”


	10. john-paul-george-ringo wait for the bus

"So you're saying that our Paul went and bought an actual pair of _Gucci_ heels?" 

"For the last time John, I was sloshed."

"Alright, alright!" He raises his hands in surrender. "Didja at least take a picture?"

_"John!"_

"Several polaroids, actually."

 _"Geo!_ Not you too! Ritchie, back me up here-"

"D'ya wanna see his Jessica Rabbit impersonation?"

"I swear to _God_ -"

~

After the discharge papers are approved (and after John causes a screamfest from courageously ripping the IV out of his arm), they're on their way home. Paul jams Ringo's sunglasses on John as they sit at the bus stop, berating him a mile a minute.

"Aw c'mon, I didn't think there'd be so much blood."

"It was in your _vein_ , you daft sod!"

"Well excuse me, doc! Aren't veins supposed to be really tiny or whatever?"

"Hmph! Does it still hurt?"

"Yeah. I think you should kiss it again."

George and Ringo exchange a look, and mid-eye roll George notices Ringo's hand on top of his. He's not sure how long it's been there, but it's great. And Ringo's hand is soft. It's the same sort of softness that he's only seen on John and Paul: originating from the chest, to the other, and vice versa- something along that line. Specifically that line. There's no rush for anything.

"So lads," John starts, "I say we all get some drinks. Hafta celebrate the _happy couple_ somehow, right?"

Paul smacks John on the shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> firstly, thanks so much for reading, and for leaving kudos and comments! they make my day. :D
> 
> what started as a mindless fun oneshot of the fab four getting drunk unravelled into this multichap, and i'm happy to say that writing this was a blast. the next thing is that this evolved into a series, so it's not... the end. pun kinda intended i guess. 
> 
> as usual, feel free to review, or ask me anything! thanks again! <3


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